


Here Once, Here Again

by wolfheartedgirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of past abuse, future!fic, pure fluff, sansan secret valentine challenge, tumblr!prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:58:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfheartedgirl/pseuds/wolfheartedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring. Winterfell. Reunion. “My Promise is my oath to you. It’s all I have to give but I give it willingly and without condition. To you. To House Stark. I will do anything…’, the words became heavy in his mouth, but to speak them spelled sweet relief, ‘…anything for you. Always."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Once, Here Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sansan Secret Valentine challenge over on Tumblr.
> 
> Prompt from everybodyrelaxigotthis.tumblr.com:
> 
> “Spring. Winterfell. Reunion. “My Promise is my oath to you. It’s all I have to give but I give it willingly and without condition. To you. To House Stark. I will do anything…’, the words became heavy in his mouth, but to speak them spelled sweet relief, ‘…anything for you. Always.”  
> \--
> 
>  
> 
> This work is unbeta'd, so be gentle :)

_Full circle,_  she thinks.

Once here, and now back again. It all comes back and back and back. Sansa watches the man dismount in the bailey and wonders, not for the first time, what she will do when he is before her once again. He is not the first ghost she has seen since her return to the ruins that are left of her home – far from it – but he is somehow the most important of the lot. He is the ghost that is hardest – and some how the easiest – to face.

Sansa remembers the last time she saw him; it had been autumn then. The leaves turning red like the Keep on the High Hill; golden like the queen’s hair and brittle as her prince’s smile. She was different then, too. She knew how to love. Or thought she did. Knew who she was and who she was meant to be.

She is not that girl anymore. Has not been for some time now. Sansa knows she has come too far, seen too much, to ever go back. She had thought her memories buried with her past. With her family. Had thought herself steady, at peace with all that had been lost.

It was Joffrey’s cruelty that took her trust in Knights and sweet Princes. Cersei’s cold smile that took her belief in fair maidens. Tyrion’s longing, clinging gaze that stole from her the hope of marriage for love. Ser Ilyn’s sword that took her father’s head and a Frey’s treachery that took her mother and brother 

She thinks of Bran and Rickon. Lady. Winterfell itself.

As she watches him stride forward she remembers the cold steel at her throat that stole her trust in him. A knife in the darkness, green fire dancing in the sky like demons come to play. The smell of vomit and blood and battle and a song, taken at the point of a blade.

Sansa is not sure what to make of the man before her. She knows him. Knows him in the breadth of his shoulders and the way he looks at her, head slightly ducked, half-cocked to the side, like a sad old hound looking for kindness in a stranger… she knows all of this, just as she knows how hard those hands can grasp and how those half-burned lips can curl into a snarl. 

She knows the weight of him pinning a child to the bed, helpless in their shared torment.

_Never again,_  she thinks. She somehow cannot muster hate for him. She never could. Pity. Anger. Fear. Something that might have been understanding, but never hate. 

It has been six years since the sky burned green and the Hound left her behind.

Six years, and they have both changed.

Outside- her hair is redder and her eyes bluer, colder, and her body fuller. She is taller now and wears thick furs and riding leathers. Carries a bow on her back. She has her father’s spine, now, and her mother’s sense of duty. 

His hair is longer and his beard longer and his eyes clearer, grey and bright without the anger to dull them. The watery spring sunshine picks out the grey strands marring his black hair.

Inside – she is the Warden of these lands. Queen in all but name and sister in all but blood to the silver-haired queen in the South. She is Stark Steel now, and the cold bite of winter winds even as Spring dawns.

(The girl she used to be is still there, he thinks, hidden like flowers beneath winter’s snow. He’ll find her if it’s the last thing he ever does).

He is calmer now. His big body does not fidget with wine-sickness and his mouth does not twitch with anger.  His eyes… Clear and grey; grey as a sky before a summer snow.  Grey as the walls of Winterfell that rise above and around them all. Grey like her father’s eyes. His eyes pin her as they always did and she no longer looks away.

Now, there is only this. Them. Here in the ruinous great hall of Winterfell, with snow filtering through holes in the ceiling; ash-slicked stones bearing witness to this moment. Sandor Clegane is on his knees before her, and she thinks back to the last time she saw him thus – kneeling before a small, scared girl and dabbing blood from her lip. She wonders if his hands are still as gentle. Still as calloused and warm.

He looks up at her and she wonders what he sees. If he is disappointed that she is no longer a frail little bird.

(if perhaps he would accept a strong, fierce little bird instead and forgive her for being afraid still, deep down inside where no one sees)

He speaks then, his words only for her, “My promise is my oath to you. It’s all I have to give, but I give it willingly and without condition. To you. To House Stark. To the North. I will do anything,” the words become heavy in his mouth, but to speak them spelled sweet relief, “…anything for you. Always.”

His voice is no longer steel on stone – it is warm. Rough, but warm. And his eyes are clearer than she has ever seen them and deep as the pools of the Godswood and Sansa, for all her new power and strength, finds herself speechless and small in the face of such unfettered and unconditional loyalty.

Sandor waits, patient. The patience that has seen him through six years as a holy brother – well, not quite. No vows were said on that isle, but the lessons he took to heart. Knew he had to, if he was ever to be good enough for her. Knew that the dog he was would never be welcome at her table.

Sansa looks at him. Through him. He knows what she sees: a brute, drunken and terrified. A sky lit green and a dagger at her throat.

She looks at him. She smiles.

He sees redemption.


End file.
